| Georgie grew to hate her name
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| It sounded like a tiny man
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| And the one she had said «I can’t see you, but I’ll call you
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| Whenever I can»
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| Sometimes the phone would ring, when she was half-asleep
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| A voice would drag her down with its suggestions
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| Though she often felt cheated, she never felt cheap
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| Well heaven knows what fills the heart and makes you feel so
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| Alive
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| It’s impossible to tear apart
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| Georgie and her rival
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| It was half-past February
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| And he hadn’t called since New Year’s Day
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| Maybe he’d found another woman to say those words no chapel girl
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| Should say
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| Her mother would phone and always keep talking
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| She’d try to be polite, making faces
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| But somewhere in the back of her mind, her rival was stalking
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| Her rival would always wait till the eighth or ninth bell
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| He’d be desperate anyway and drunk as well
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| She always liked to hurt him to prove he was prepared
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| To love her anyway that she wanted
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| So she could tell which she preferred
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| He sat up with his address book trying to think what mood he’s in
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| His finger traced past Georgie’s name to someone who needed less
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| Persuading
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| He didn’t hear through her disguise he didn’t leave her in a rush
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| Just like the promise that he left on her machine
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| That almost made her blush
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| The radio plays a lover’s symphony
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| «The number you have dialed has been re-directed»
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| Now she puts him on the speaker-phone
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| Whenever she has company |